“I could not stay at home. I could not endure the uncertainty any longer. It was terrible—alone, with no one at the house; and the thought that my poor brother—Mon dieu! Mon dieu!”
Poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring, look.
“I thought I might find Henry here.”
“Here! But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!”
“Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt—when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried. On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back.”
Poindexter’s look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare it.
“A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent—indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come—come away! This is no place for a lady—for you. Get to your horse, and ride home again. Some one will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!” The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.
The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front.
They are all there. Calhoun has made known the condition of things inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance.
They stand in groups—some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around the Connemara man; who lies upon the grass, last tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.